“No! Don’t touch me!” I shriek, a jagged, primal sound. I kick out, my heel catching one of the younger women in the jaw. “Get away from me, you bitches! Let me go!”
I fight like a wild animal, my body a map of bruises and fresh wounds, but they hoist me up by my armpits. They drag me toward the tub, the steam rising in ghostly white plumes.
“I said no!” I scream, twisting in their grip, my gold shackles clashing against the copper rim of the tub. I bite the hand of the woman holding my left arm, tasting salt and soap.
“Enough.”
The voice hits the room like a hammer. I freeze, my chest heaving, a strand of hair stuck to my tear-stained cheek.
Viktor is standing in the doorway. He’s changed into a fresh suit—a deep navy that looks almost black in the dim light. He’s leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, watching my struggle with a look of bored, predatory irritation.
“She is a fighter, Eccellenza,” the old woman says, wiping the blood from her bitten hand onto her apron.
Viktor walks into the room, his boots clicking with a lethal rhythm. He stops at the edge of the tub and looks down at me—naked, filthy, and trembling with a rage that is the only thing keeping me from shattering.
“You have two choices, Wendy,” he says, his voice a low, viral growl that vibrates in the small space. “You can let these women wash the filth of the floor off you, or I can dismiss them.”
He steps closer, the heat of his body radiating off his suit. He leans down, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark pits of unyielding iron.
“If you won’t fucking behave, I will send them away, and I will fuck you into submission until you don’t remember how to stand, let alone fight,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “I will break your spirit the same way I broke your body, and I will enjoy the sound of your voice failing you. Do you understand me, piccola fiamma?”
I stare at him, my breath hitching in a sob I refuse to let out. The image of him back in the dark—the agony of him tearing through me—flashes behind my eyes. My body betrays me, a shiver of pure, unadulterated terror racking my spine.
“Wash her,” I whisper, my head dropping, my hair shielding my face.
“Good girl,” Viktor murmurs, his hand briefly skimming the top of my head before he straightens up.
He doesn’t leave. He stays in the doorway, a shadow guarding the exit, as the women hoist me into the warm, thick milk. It’s supposed to be a luxury, a healing bath for the brand on my skin, but as the white liquid turns a pale, sickly pink from the blood rinsing off my thighs, it feels like I’m being drowned in a shroud.
I sit there, the milk stinging the raw tears inside me, while they scrub my skin with coarse sponges. Ilook at the ruby ring on my finger, still glowing its steady, defiant red under the surface of the milk.
Peter,I think, my eyes locking onto Viktor’s cold gaze across the room. If you’re coming, come now. Because there isn’t much left of me to save.
The women are still scrubbing at the pink-tinged milk on my skin when the adrenaline finally screams louder than the fear. Viktor’s eyes drift for a split second, distracted by a vibration on his phone, and that’s the only crack I need.
I bolt.
I heave myself out of the copper tub, the slick, warm milk splashing onto the concrete like a dying gasp. I don’t care that I’m naked. I don’t care that the brand on my shoulder is screaming as the cold air hits the raw nerves. I sprint past the startled servants and dive through the open door, my bare feet slapping against the gravel of the courtyard.
Behind me, I hear it—not a shout of anger, but a low, dark chuckle that makes the blood in my veins turn to ice.
“Run then, piccola fiamma!” Viktor’s voice booms, echoing off the stone walls of the estate. “I haven’t hunted a bird in a very long time!”
I run toward the only structure that looks like a sanctuary—the massive, black-timbered barn at the edge of the property. The rain is a freezing lash against my skin, washing away the scent of goat’s milk and replacing it with the iron tang of the night. I burst through the heavy double doors, the scent of cedar, manure, and dry hay hitting me like a physical wall. The horses shift in their stalls, their massive hoovesthundering against the wood, sensing the panic radiating off me.
I scramble toward the back, my breath coming in jagged, wheezing sobs, but the heavy thud of his boots is already inside. He’s not even running. He’s stalking.
“You think these walls will keep me out?” Viktor’s voice is a purr in the rafters. “I built this cage, Wendy.”
I try to climb a ladder to the hayloft, but a massive, gloved hand snares my ankle. I’m yanked down, my chin hitting the dirt, before he flips me over and hurls me onto a mountain of dry, golden hay. The dust explodes around us, coating my damp skin in a suffocating grit.
Before I can scream, he grabs a handful of the dry straw and shoves it into my mouth, his fingers bruising my jaw as he stuffs it deep, gagging me with the taste of earth and rot.
“Quiet,” he snarls, his face a mask of sweating, primal fury.
When I try to bite his hand, he draws back and cracks his palm across my face. Crack. My head snaps to the side, my vision fracturing into white sparks as my lip splits against my teeth. The copper taste of fresh blood instantly floods the hay in my mouth.
He looms over me, unbuckling his belt with a violent, rhythmic snap.
